More- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: To Sherlock, actions will always speak louder than words. John is not sure how to take his flat mate's advances, but doesn't dream to imagine the feelings behind them. Basically, another fic where the Baker Street boys eventually reach a very mature understanding. I OWN NOTHING.


John stood in the rain with his hands in his pockets, watching his genius flat mate make deductions about the body at his feet that would allow DI Lestrade and the rest of his team to arrest the killer whose identity had been completely unknown until now. Once Scotland Yard called Sherlock onto a case, it was only a matter of time before the perpetrator was behind bars. He was, after all, the best consulting detective in all of London. And while he was technically the _only_ consulting detective, it was beside the point, because he was brilliant at what he did.

Brilliant at _everything_ he did. Which probably explained the skills was about to display, though not the effect they had on John.

"If that's everything, Lestrade, we'll be off. Killer to catch." Sherlock said curtly, taking long, loping steps on those never-ending legs of his. Greg rolled his eyes, and John smiled at him before hurrying after the black-haired genius, promising to text him when they caught the man. John felt the reassuring metal of the gun at the small of his back, and it soothed him. The man they were hunting was extremely homophobic, a condition triggered by the fact that his girlfriend had been cheating on him with his daughter.

No matter why, it was no excuse to go killing people, and John knew that. He followed Sherlock almost blindly into an alley, both because of the pouring rain and because he was used to not having time to think because he had to run to keep up with the other man. He was surprised when Sherlock stopped, turned, and pushed him up against the wet brick of the building that made up one side of the alley.

There, in the pouring rain, Sherlock pressed his lips against John's, a little roughly, making John gasp when his knee came up to rub against John's cock, easily earning entrance to the doctor's mouth. All the while, Sherlock's hands were in his hair, on his chest, at the small of his back… and then he pulled the gun from John's waistband and pointed it at a man who was approaching them with a knife and a sinister grin.

"Drop the knife." Sherlock stepped away, eyes impartial as ever, with the gun pointed steadily at the chest of the knife-wielding murderer. The man's eyes widened and he dropped it instantly, putting his hands up.

"As I thought. A murderer, but a coward. I'm amazed you didn't faint at the sight of blood. I bet you'd faint at the sight of your own. Let's not make that necessary, shall we?" Sherlock's tone was that seductive baritone John had come to love over the years, with no hint of the passion he'd been feigning only moments ago. And he had to have been faking it; John had never seen Sherlock so much as kiss anyone else, let alone kiss another person quite that passionately. Of course it had been an act.

Part of John was deeply disappointed, but he did his part. He kicked the knife away before catching the cuffs Sherlock tossed him—undoubtedly nicked from Greg—and bound the man's wrists. He hastily recovered his gun and hid it away before the cops came, and after Lestrade made the arrest, he and Sherlock gave their statements, pointed out the knife they hadn't touched so as not to contaminate evidence, and went to catch a cab in the soft drizzle that had now descended over London.

John knew better than to ask about the kiss, the same way he knew not to bring up his increasing attraction to this man who'd always claimed to be married to his work. He knew better than to hope that something might come of his feelings. But he'd done it anyway, hadn't he? He'd let himself dream, and now, he'd be disappointed after a searing kiss that made it perfectly clear to him what he would be missing.

The doctor couldn't help wanting more, even though it was only going to leave him with a broken heart at the end of it. Once Sherlock figured it out, he'd be lucky to be allowed to stay on at the flat.

Heartsick, John never noticed that Sherlock was watching him the entire cab ride home, or the way he repeatedly opened his mouth before closing it again once they were back at 221B Baker Street. John made them tea, and did all the normal things, but he did so without so much as a smile, which was beyond strange.

Sherlock decided that speaking was only going to make things worse. He picked up his violin and turned his attention out the window so he wouldn't have to observe John, and see how subdued he'd been ever since the kiss.

He'd known it was a mistake. To be around John was to want him, at least, that was true of Sherlock, and the mounting attraction made it difficult for him to think, quite frankly. He'd had to figure out if his hypothesis about why was true, and he'd found that it was. And that was more than a bit not good. Sherlock now knew that he was in love with his doctor, who was _not_ _gay_, as he'd said so many times, and John couldn't even look at him after the kiss they'd shared. Sherlock sighed as he played, wishing for a cigarette.

"Something the matter?" Hyperaware of his flat mate, John listened to the genius's sigh, and wondered what he could possibly be thinking about. Probably the easy wrap up of the case, knowing him. John was tempted to sigh in return.

"Yes. I was… unsatisfied, earlier." Sherlock didn't see a point in keeping it to himself, now that he'd taken the gamble and well and truly lost. Obviously John wasn't interested in him, or he'd have made some sort of reciprocal gesture. He'd played along for the purposes of the case, but that was all.

"You mean when you kissed me?" John blurted out with a frown, then cursed himself in his head. He definitely had not meant to be that blunt.

"Yes." The detective whispered, and heard the doctor stand up behind him, the movement stiff as if he was… upset. Sherlock figured he probably was. He'd probably violated some code of ordinary minds by initiating that kiss without permission.

"I'm sorry if the kiss was so distasteful to you." John bit out, fully prepared to retreat to his room and wait things out. Sherlock froze, nearly dropping his violin on the floor before he finally remembered he was holding it. Setting it down, he spun around quickly and turned John to face him, eyes wide.

"That is not what I meant. I only meant that I wanted more." He didn't know why he felt the urge to explain himself, but then, he didn't know why he'd offended John, either. He'd been blown away by the kiss they'd shared, and only his desire to make sure John was safe had allowed him to turn his attention back to the murderer. He wanted at least that much to be clear to his flat mate.

"Why?" John's eyes narrowed as he looked up at him, and Sherlock felt his heart pound loudly in his chest, and wondered if the other man could hear it. No, that was absurd. Forcing himself to come up with an excuse before he could blurt out the words that would reveal too much, Sherlock shrugged, aiming for nonchalance.

"I've never done that sort of thing before. I suppose you might call it an experiment of sorts. You're very physically attractive, as I'm sure you are aware, and if I were to engage in intercourse with anyone, I would choose you." There. That was good. It sounded more like an experiment than a declaration of affection. He released John and clasped his hands behind his back, awaiting a response. The worst thing that could happen was that John would walk away laughing and the situation would resolve itself.

"You wanted more. Because you've never had sex, and think you'd find it interesting to have sex with me." John summarized slowly and the consulting detective nodded.

"Yes. But I am certain that that is an experiment that would require your consent, and I don't imagine that you would give it, so I won't ask. I did what was necessary for the case earlier, but the idea of going past that is… intriguing."

"You want to have sex because it's interesting." The doctor sounded disbelieving, and Sherlock wondered if he was onto him. He made himself nod, looking down at him coolly.

"As I said, I won't offend you by asking your assistance. Perhaps I'll ask… well, no, I can't ask Lestrade. He would probably be interested if he weren't shagging my brother, but—"

"I'll help you." John spoke over Sherlock's words, not wanting to hear about how Greg would be a suitable substitute for him in the consulting detective's bed. If anyone was going to be sleeping with Sherlock, it would be _him_.

"I… Oh. Well, shall we get started then?" Deciding it was better to get to it before John could change his mind, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and started towing him to the doctor's bedroom, before realizing that the doctor was hesitating.

"Something the matter, John?" He asked, hoping he wasn't about to be denied the thing he'd been dreaming of for so long. Still, he was climbing the stairs behind him…

"I… No. Nothing at all." There was something in his tone that the genius couldn't identify, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. Even if John wasn't interested in him—and why would he be? Why would anyone be?—he would still be a considerate lover, and Sherlock would attempt to return that favor in kind. He wasn't sure he was prepared for the sensations, but figured he could think past them.

As it turned out, he was wrong. He found it hard to breathe as he unbuttoned John's shirt, anticipation making him shake. His hands, normally rock steady, were clumsy and uncoordinated, and John ended up having to take the task over while the taller man watched, a little frustrated.

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine. Most people are nervous their first time. It gets easier." John murmured the assurance in a low, deep voice that had Sherlock's gut clenching with repressed need. He took a deep, shaky breath and nodded, reaching up to undo his own shirt. He managed to avoid ripping anything, but he wasn't entirely sure how. By the time he'd managed his own shirt, John was down to his pants, pausing to look at him carefully.

"All right there, Sherlock?" His tone was soft and somehow sensual, and Sherlock gritted his teeth against the urge to shiver and throw himself on the doctor's mercy.

"I could perhaps use some assistance." He said, jaw clenched. John studied him carefully before bringing a hand up to cradle his cheek. Surprisingly, he didn't tug him down for a kiss, but instead rubbed his thumb over one high, sharp cheekbone.

"We don't have to do this. Or we can go more slowly. There's usually some sort of lead up anyway."

"No," Sherlock said sharply, eyes flashing a little. John pulled his hand away, something like regret in his eyes before he looked down to focus on Sherlock's trousers instead. Normally, Sherlock would have been able to deduce what he was thinking, but it was too difficult to focus on whatever it was he was hiding and process the sensations he was feeling all at once. So he let himself concentrate on those competent hands as they dropped his trousers to the floor and urged him out of them, guiding him to sit on the bed.

John moved to stand between his legs, meeting his gaze intently.

"You'll tell me if you start to panic, yeah?" Sherlock met those steady blue eyes determinedly and nodded, surprised that Captain Watson didn't take control and steal a kiss. He'd been hoping for it, but instead, John moved in closer, and their erections brushed even through the thin fabric still covering both of them. Sherlock shuddered, resting his forehead on John's chest as he moved his hips slowly, letting the dark-haired man get used to him.

After a few minutes of that delicious torture, Sherlock had had enough. He moved back on the bed and disposed of his silk pants almost in one motion, tossing them over to land with the rest of his clothes, before spreading his legs in unmistakable invitation.

He thought he saw John swallow, hard, before indicating his night stand.

"I took the liberty of purchasing some lube. Both of us are clean." John didn't bother to ask how Sherlock had known to even check, let alone how he'd accomplished it. Instead, he simply got out the lube, afraid he was going to lose his fragile self-control if he waited much longer. It was much more clinical than he'd dreamed it, but somehow, that didn't matter, with Sherlock splayed out on his sheets like a decadent offering.

Ignoring the little voice in his head that told John an experiment was definitely the wrong reason to have sex with the man he loved, and that he would inevitably come to regret it in the not too distant future, John poured lube onto his fingers, warming it up.

"Just get it over with." Sherlock snarled, wondering how long he was going to be able to last. He was already painfully hard, every muscle clenched in anticipation, and he was half afraid that the first touch was going to be the end of him. John looked a little alarmed for a moment, and then something like hurt flashed in his eyes. Before Sherlock could address it, however, he dipped his head to concentrate, and one finger nudged at his entrance, making him jump and bite his lip to keep from moaning.

All of Sherlock's considerable mental faculties had abandoned him under the onslaught of need that was crashing over him like an avalanche, making him struggle to breathe. It took everything he had not to lose control, but he knew his chances of getting this again would be better if he could get John off, too.

Sherlock had no intention of ever finding anyone else to have this with. He would forever deny his physical needs if he couldn't be with John. It would never be worth being vulnerable with anyone else, and John was the only one who could make him feel like this, anyway.

Throwing his head back, he closed his eyes as that finger slid inside him, covered in lube but still vaguely uncomfortable. He was actually relieved, because it gave him a chance to pull back from the edge and spool out the pleasure. He wanted it to last, this first time, especially if it was the only time he could make this happen.

John watched carefully for any signs of distress as he began to work his finger in and out, until he was confident that Sherlock wouldn't be in any unnecessary pain. Then he added another finger, listening attentively to the hissed out breath that preceded a low, drawn out moan. He stilled until Sherlock looked at him with almost wild eyes before rocking his hips down, trying to drive those fingers deeper inside him.

"Just calm down," John murmured, trying to soothe him with a hand on one sharply defined hip.

"Just fuck me." Sherlock replied, his voice rough with what John might have thought was anger, were it not for the continual shifting of his hips, which were still trying to get the friction he obviously needed.

"I don't want to hurt you." John said, adamantly. Sherlock shook his head, hissing impatiently as his head fell back on the pillow.

"Hurry, then. I… please." For Sherlock to say please was so unexpected that John nearly stopped and asked what alien invaded his body, but he figured that might lose him this chance for good. As it was, the genius was obviously losing patience with him, despite the necessity of preparation.

"Okay." He began to scissor his fingers slowly, watching for any signs of real pain. He could read the discomfort on Sherlock's face, but there was something else there, too, which startled him. He looked almost as if he was at peace. It was a strange thing, but set John at ease as he added a third finger, finally letting himself brush Sherlock's prostate as he worked him. He jumped, those long, graceful fingers tangling in the sheets.

"Ssh, now, it's okay." John murmured before withdrawing his fingers and slicking himself up, well aware that this was the first time in many, many years that he'd had sex without a condom. It was so much more intense, and he wondered if he was going to be able to do this without embarrassing himself. Still, Sherlock deserved the best, so John called on every ounce of his experience as Three Continents Watson as he slowly slipped inside him, letting the taller man feel every inch.

Those hands came up and landed against his back, holding onto him as he rocked out and slowly pushed back in. He could feel Sherlock's erection weeping on his stomach as he moved back in, and wondered how long either of them would last. It certainly didn't seem like it was going to take them long. Still, he wanted to make it count, make it so Sherlock never forgot it.

He set a slow, gentle pace for the first few minutes, until Sherlock was digging his nails into his back in a silent demand for him to move faster. His lips were pressed into a tight line, but those oceanic eyes were intense when they met his, expressing everything he wasn't letting himself say. Then those long dark lashes swept down and he tipped his head back in a gesture of stunning submission.

John lowered his head to kiss that long, swanlike neck, nipping gently at a spot that would be hidden beneath a shirt collar.

He picked up his pace when Sherlock began to rock back up at him, meeting his thrusts and sliding his nails down his back, undoubtedly leaving a mark. It was a clear sign to hurry, and he obliged, at the end of his own patience. His thrusts became erratic and jerky, and just before he felt the earth shake, he reached down with the hand not bracing him up to stroke Sherlock. He barely closed his hand around his shaft before Sherlock came all over them, mouth opening in a silent scream. That was all John needed to follow him over the edge.

When John got his breath back, he pulled out slowly and rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. He felt boneless, utterly sated, and wondered if Sherlock was going to stay the night. As it turned out, he didn't even stay five minutes.

Rising as soon as he could find the resolve to do so—he wanted to stay, but wasn't sure how John would take actually lingering in bed with him—Sherlock gathered his clothes, pausing in the doorway.

"That was very… informative. But I think I might need more data. Shall we repeat this at a later time?" He waited for a minute for a response, but when he didn't get one, he sighed and left the room, wishing he'd had just five more minutes in John's arms.

John, who didn't yet have the breath to tell Sherlock to go to hell, waited until he closed the door behind him and descended the stairs before he let misery overwhelm him. Silent tears slid down his cheeks before he closed his eyes, wishing he'd had just a little more time with the man he loved before it was all over.

John was amazed that Sherlock didn't ask him to move out the very next day. In fact, things went back to normal almost instantly, but for one thing.

In between cases, and _only_ in between cases, Sherlock often wandered into John's room without knocking, stark naked and occasionally with a bottle of lubricant if their current bottle was about to go dry.

For several months, the doctor let it go on. Having Sherlock be his, even in such a limited capacity, was almost more than he'd ever dared hope for. But as the days went on, he found himself fighting even harder against the urge to kiss him, or pull him in for a hug, or even take his hand. It was nearly impossible to resist the lure of physical touch, but for a far more emotional reason. He realized that he could no longer have meaningless sex with the man he loved, because it hurt, and he needed more.

The next night, after a particularly long, arduous case, Sherlock barged into his room as usual, only to find his light off. John had taken to waiting up for him on nights like these, but had turned the light out as a sign that he didn't want disturbed. He sighed, realizing that it would come to a confrontation. Sherlock wouldn't simply get the hint. It had been a vain hope anyway; giving up so easily was not the young man's style.

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounded surprisingly hesitant as he spoke to John's back, which was turned in his direction as the doctor lay on his side, fighting very hard not to roll over and welcome him into bed. But no. He'd made his choice. No matter how painful it was to turn him away, letting him use John always hurt worse. It was time for it to stop.

"I'm tired, Sherlock. And I'm pretty sure your experiment has run its course. I don't think there's anything more I feel comfortable showing you." It took all John's focus to keep his voice steady, and when he heard Sherlock's sharply indrawn breath behind him, he had to close his eyes against the urge to cry again. He wasn't strong enough to keep doing this, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Sherlock numbly nodded, forgetting that John wasn't looking at him, and scrambled downstairs and into the relative safety of his room as quickly as possible. Tears started to cascade down his face at the realization that it was over, leaving him cold and numb inside. And there was no fixing it, he knew. John was the only thing that had ever made him feel alive, and his voice had been so cool, so unconcerned… One broken sob escaped before he bit his fist to keep the subsequent expressions of grief from escaping, well aware that if John heard him, the doctor would feel guilt.

And the last thing Sherlock could stand right now was a sympathetic John explaining that it wasn't his fault, it was just that he was straight, and that while he was able to physically get off, it wasn't the sort of relationship he could really afford to waste his time on. All of it would be said gently, of course, in the nicest possible way. It would break everything that was left of the consulting detective, and the last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of the man who'd given him a glimpse of everything he'd ever wanted and now turned away from him.

Sherlock didn't understand. That was the thing he kept circling back to. He'd been beyond amazed when John had let him back into his bed the second time, even the third, but eventually, they'd gotten a pattern down. And then something had seemed to shift in John. He was withdrawn, both in the bedroom and on cases, and he'd started taking more shifts at surgery. Curling into a tight ball, Sherlock wondered if his doctor had finally had enough. Did he plan to move out? Was there someone else? Had he simply gotten bored? Had it all been pity? The fact that he didn't have answers was beyond maddening.

He was too close to the situation. That much was painfully obvious. He was emotionally compromised, when he'd worked so hard never to get involved with anyone or anything. This was agony, and it was _not worth it_. Sherlock knew, then, that he would never love anyone besides John. If by some miracle he got over this excruciating heartache, he would never let himself believe in anyone like this again, or he didn't think he would make it.

Letting out a breath a couple of hours later when he finally got his transport under control—and that was all it was allowed to be now that the dream was over, cursed transport—though his mind was still in chaos, Sherlock glanced at the clock. Near to two in the morning, it would undoubtedly be impolite to play his violin, but he found he didn't care.

There was probably no way to keep John anyway, no matter what he did. All he could do to alleviate the pain was make the doctor come to his decision as quickly as possible so the sight of him wouldn't be a constant ache, and if that meant keeping him awake every night until he completely abandoned him, it was a more appealing idea than spending the next days, weeks, and months wondering when the other shoe would drop.

For someone who was so ordinary, John was surprisingly hard to read these days. Sherlock didn't honestly know how he would feel about an impromptu middle of the night violin concert, but he tried very hard not to think about that as he rosined his bow, painstakingly tuned the strings, and began. As he played, something he'd once heard came back to him, and though it hadn't made sense to his logical mind then, it did now, more than ever.

"It's wanting more that's gonna bring me to my knees…" Even Irene Adler, who'd planned to make him beg, twice, hadn't ever made him feel this depth of emotion. There was no one but John for him, never had been, and wanting more had taken from him the only person that had ever truly made him happy. His head bowed in defeat as he played.

John lay awake in the dark, hours after Sherlock had left wordlessly. No doubt he'd been disappointed, but he obviously hadn't cared that much, or he'd have argued for the sake of science. No, he'd been little more than a distraction, and he briefly wondered if the genius would seek someone else to experiment on. It wouldn't be hard to find a willing body, with the Sherlock fever that had once again swept through London.

Just when he was about to give into his bitterness and sleep, John heard a noise from downstairs. It was one low, mournful note, followed by another, until they were tripping over one another, fighting to express their grief the loudest.

That realization gave the doctor pause. Sherlock was mourning something, but what? He couldn't think of anything out of the ordinary that had happened that day, except… His stomach dropped out at about the same time his feet hit the floor, but the low thump made the music screech to an abrupt halt. Slowly, he eased himself back into bed, and after a long moment, the music continued again.

Sherlock didn't want company then. Well, that was fine. In the morning, perhaps they could talk, and John could see if there was something to his theory. Could Sherlock want more, too?

But when John awoke in the morning, he wasn't there. There was a text on his phone, but it wasn't from Sherlock, either. It was Lestrade, asking if he was sick, because he hadn't come to the crime scene. John felt nauseous as he realized that the dark haired man had gone off to chase criminals without him. That meant that he was out in London alone, somewhere, without his blogger to protect him.

A phone call distracted John from his fear, and he picked up to hear Sarah's voice on the other end.

"John? Hi. I know it's short notice, but we're absolutely swamped today. Think you can come in for a few hours?"

If he was wrong, and Sherlock had been playing for the hell of it the night before, he was going to need money to tide him over while he found a new place to live. So, sighing, John mumbled that sure, he'd be there, and left.

He didn't see the man sitting in the coffee shop across the road watching him, curly dark hair tucked away under a hat so it wouldn't give him away. As soon as John had gotten in a taxi Sherlock crossed the road, reentering the flat which felt cold and empty without John's presence. He had taken and finished a case for the police in less than two hours, but there was no thrill of having won the game. He felt hollow and blank, and had worried that Lestrade would pick up on it and notify his brother. He'd hastened away from the DI, not wanting him to see the cloud of misery that had made a permanent home over his head.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if he hadn't hidden his feelings well enough, because his brother showed up, strolling in without so much as knocking, only fifteen minutes later.

"Sherlock, Gregory informs me that you went on case without Doctor Watson today, despite the fact that he was not at St. Bart's. Care to explain whatever it is that made you leave him home?"

The younger Holmes remembered a conversation they'd had once, when Sherlock had with his older brother. He'd asked if something was wrong with them, when everyone else cared so much, and they did not. Mycroft's word for word answer had been embedded in his brain ever since that day.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." His brother murmured those same words now, but there was something sad in his voice, and his younger brother realized something.

"Why is Lestrade not with you?" Frowning, he studied his brother, half afraid that he would break up with the DI, thus leaving him with even more time to spy on Sherlock. It was not an appealing thought for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that both would be miserable and make him miserable in return.

"Gregory is currently visiting his ex-wife. For some reason, he found it necessary to speak with her on her birthday." His tone was terse, and Sherlock didn't have to be able to deduce to see the lingering fear in his gaze. Even now, Mycroft found it difficult to cope with Lestrade's occasional dealings with his ex.

"Please, Mycroft. As if Lestrade would ever leave you. He cares for you far more than is wise. Since you obviously return the sentiment, I would be surprised if your little goldfish ever abandoned you. He seems quite fond of you, after all. And he is not one to give up on even the most difficult of relationships."

"That is exactly why I worry, brother. He held onto that woman far longer than was necessary, and any moment he spends with her is a moment in which he is reminded of that. It hurts him every time. But speaking of attachments, Doctor Watson is normally attached at your hip. Has something happened?"

"As if you don't know." Sherlock sneered at Mycroft, who actually didn't look smug, for once. Instead, he seemed… contemplative.

"Actually, I didn't until you used that particular tone." Pursing his lips, the elder Holmes brother paused when he received a text and glanced at his phone for a moment before his expression softened into a smile.

"Tell him you love him too. Actually, do it in person. That way you can go away and leave me in peace."

Sherlock drawled the words as if they didn't particularly matter, but Mycroft picked up on the strain in his voice easily.

"Have you tried honesty? It is, as they say, the best policy."

"We were sleeping together for several months. I made the first move. John is the one who ended it. Which was certainly his choice."

"Did he know why you were sharing a bed? Last time I checked, you were not particularly good with verbalizing sentiment."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" Sherlock was at the end of his patience with his brother, but the only way Mycroft would leave was by his own choice. He'd experienced this same dance often enough to know how it ended. Irritating his brother would only extend the torture.

"It means, brother, that some people need the words. Sometimes action is not enough. Your John is not like us. He cannot read your every emotion by virtue of a single glance. You've been patient with him in every other area. Are you going to tell me you're incapable of doing so here? If so, I have overestimated your affection for him."

"You haven't." The concession was so sudden and unexpected that both brothers blinked, before the elder slowly nodded and rose, umbrella clutched gracefully in one hand while the other rose to wave before opening the door. He left without another word, but Sherlock had plenty of company thanks to his swirling thoughts.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was hesitant as he opened the door, wondering if his flat mate would even be there. He was surprised to find him sitting at the kitchen table, scarred and seared from hundreds of experiments, with a cup of tea in his hands as if to warm them. There was another cup set across from him, still letting off a thin stream of steam, and John realized Sherlock had made tea for him.

Instantly wary because he remembered the last time that had happened, he nonetheless took a seat, sniffing carefully.

"It's just the way you like it. No additives. I promise." Sherlock spoke gently, looking at the table as if he didn't expect John to believe him. Not sure why the consulting detective's expression seemed so forlorn, he couldn't resist taking a sip, if only to show his trust in the other man. He looked surprised, when things so rarely surprised him, and John found himself chuckling quietly, pleased to have earned the reaction.

"So what's this about, Sherlock?" John waved a hand to encompass the clean table, empty of experiments of any kind, and Sherlock bit his lip, looking conflicted for a moment.

"I just… we never talked about…" Trailing off because the words were almost impossible to say, Sherlock took a deep breath and forced himself to try again. "We never discussed my reasons for engaging intercourse with you."

John let out a startled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sound of pain, and shook his head.

"Yeah, we kind of did. You were doing an experiment." Frowning as he wondered if he'd somehow skewed his flat mate's results but realizing that there was no real way he could fix that, now without losing another part of himself in the process.

"I lied." Sherlock blurted out, a pink blush staining those sharp cheekbones immediately after. "It was never an experiment. I wanted to feel… close to you." He blushed deeper, and still hadn't looked at John even once. He lifted his tea as if to take a sip, then lowered it again, fingers spasming ever so slightly. Finally, he sat the cup down and put his hands in his lap, where he continued to fidget until John lay a hand over his. He immediately froze.

"Sherlock. Look at me." The taller man shook his head, closing his eyes in a sweep of those long lashes, and John decided it was time to pull out his Captain voice. Reaching out with his free hand to cup Sherlock's jaw, he lifted his head.

"Look. At. Me." Almost of their own accord, his eyes darted up to meet John's, and then it was like he couldn't look away. He was trapped by John, lost in his gaze, and he found himself leaning forward almost of his own accord.

John was leaning forward as well, and their lips met gently, a sweet, chaste kiss that was fragile and full of promise. Suddenly, John understood what Sherlock had been attempting to say with his body, what he hadn't had the courage to say out loud. And Sherlock understood all the things he'd missed because he'd been too wrapped up in his own feelings to see John's, which were now utterly transparent.

"I want more. More than just sex, intimacy, what we had before."

"I want more too, Sherlock. I want to be able to hold your hand and kiss you anytime I want, hear you play your melodies and hold you when you're sad and know that you care about me half as much as I care for you. I can't accept anything less. That's why I turned you away."

"So it's not that you're… done with me? I know you've always said you are straight…" Sherlock found himself unable to resist touching John even though he wasn't yet completely sure that his caresses would be welcome.

"Apparently I am Sherlock-sexual, recently. I haven't even looked at anyone else since the first time we had sex. I don't want anyone else. If I can have you, it's more than I ever imagined I could have."

"I… That does change things." Sherlock looked lost for a moment, as if he was processing data, but then he glanced up hopefully.

"Does this mean that we can do that again? The sex? And we can have more, as well?" John laughed at his earnest comment, pulling him in for another long kiss, this one wet with a clash of teeth and tongue that made both men instantly hard.

"We can have more than just the sex, Sherlock. We can have everything."

AN: Hello, my darlings. Reviews are lovely, but I find myself wanting a challenge as well. If you'd like, flip me a prompt for something you'd like to see- either Johnlock or Mystrade, I love both- and I will do my best to write you something you'll love. :)

~Wings


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